


Tears of Tenderness

by andmynewlymeltedheart



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 20:27:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12092787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andmynewlymeltedheart/pseuds/andmynewlymeltedheart





	1. Chapter 1

The night before the venchanie was agonizing-- Pierre stayed awake for hours, fear and anxiety pressing against his broad chest, threatening to suffocate him, the sheets of his bed surrounding him in uncomforting warmth. He laid there a while, the sound of his breath loud and uneven, quieting every now and then, with a listening ear checking for intruders. Pierre always became paranoid at late hours. Unable to withstand this particular bout of insomnia without action, he decided that he might as well make something of his time. He wrote a few letters that needed sending, walked the grounds three times over, checked on the pigs, and finally returned indoors and tidied up his study, a place which, Natasha had once remarked, always had the feeling of having been ransacked just moments before you entered. After gathering a final few papers, which had been strewn about his writing desk, Pierre looked around the room, tried and failed to come up with more mindless tasks to occupy himself, and sat down in his armchair. Finally, he began to doze off.  
Suddenly, he awoke, breathing heavily, and felt a great amount fear begin to swell in his chest once more. The terrible dream that had awoken him from his short slumber had caused him to believe that he had slept through his own wedding, an action (or rather, inaction) for which he would never be able to forgive himself. Pierre looked frantically for the clock, and upon discovering that it was only four in the morning, began to calm himself. After taking a series of long, low, deep breaths, he decided that comfort was what he needed, and so he began to search his many bookshelves for something to read. From the shelf nearest to his desk he drew Candide, which had always had the power to ease his apprehension. As his glassy eyes scanned pages upon pages of Voltaire’s familiar quips and biting retorts, Pierre felt the weight begin to lift from his chest. After some time, the sun began to peek through the small crack under the drawn shade over the window, and so he closed the book and decided to get ready.  
He gathered his clothing in one arm, sweeping it quickly from his closet, without fear of wrinkling the fabric in the crease of his elbow. He considered calling a servant to help him dress, but eventually decided against it. He had to keep his hands busy, or they would begin to shake, just as they always did when he was nervous. He pulled on his trousers and dress shirt, and stretched his suspenders over his great, burly shoulders. They were a little small, and dug tightly into him, though he didn’t mind. The slight discomfort he felt would eventually fade, lost in the excitement of the events of the day ahead. Finally, he pulled on and buttoned his waistcoat, the last piece of his bridegroom’s ensemble, and having finished dressing, decided to leave for the church. While he acknowledged that he still had hours until guests would even start arriving, he reassured himself that his exceptional punctuality would only be to his benefit. If I am there early, he mused, remembering his nightmare, then it will be impossible for me to miss it by mistake.  
As he opened the great wooden doors leading into the cathedral, Pierre saw a man sitting in one of the front pews. Upon hearing the loud creaking that echoed all around him, Nikolai Rostov turned, and smiled at his friend.  
“Ah, Bezukhov!” Nikolai said in a jovial tone, “Tasha said you would show up early. She asked me to come and sit with you until we start. She said it would put you at ease.”  
“I find that I am a little intimidated by the accuracy of her predictions. She seems, sometimes, to be something close to all-knowing,” Pierre chuckled. He hugged his soon-to-be brother in law, and took a seat next to him in the pew. “How is it that she knows so well of these things?”  
“She knows you, Pierre. She has always known you.” Nikolai paused for a moment, remembering, and then continued. ”When we were growing up… she would talk of you so often. Her description of your character always had such pinpoint accuracy. We would always joke that while others studied maths and literature, she studied music and you.”  
Pierre blushed, thinking of Natasha, and smiled to himself. He had never thought of her, or anyone for that matter, thinking of him or talking of him when he was not present. He had always imagined that, in others minds, he had ceased to exist the moment he left a room. Knowing now that Natasha had remembered him (and took pains to do so) filled his heart with a magnificent feeling that he could not express with words. He inhaled sharply.  
“What is it?”  
“Oh...nothing...nothing.”  
“Come on Pierre. You are going to be my brother soon. Brothers can confide in each other.”  
“No really, Nikolai. I’m fine.” Pierre sat for a moment, and Nikolai’s eyes bore straight into his. The Rostovs, Pierre believed, shared a unique ability to pull out one’s truest feelings with a simple, piercing look.  
“I am terrified, Nikolai.”  
“Terrified? Of what? Of Natasha?”  
“No…” Pierre trailed off, remembering every frightening thought he had throughout the night, “I am terrified that...that I will not...be enough for her.”  
Nikolai, uncomprehending of the intention behind this statement, chuckled heartily, leaning forward onto the pew.  
“Well, I don’t know you’ve got... experience, eh? I remember your youth almost as well as I remember my own. You were not always the picture of virtue, my friend...” Nikolai cleared his throat, and continued. “I am not sure that I want to be the one to give you advice on this subject. All I can say is that...I’m sure that you’re going to be... just fine, Pierre.”  
Pierre, realizing the misinterpretation, blushed heavily, and worked quickly to amend it.  
“No! No… not… not that. I mean, I am a little concerned about-- no!” Pierre felt his face getting hotter by the moment. “You see, you misunderstand me. I...want nothing but her happiness. What if her happiness does not lie with me?”  
“Ah. I see. Bezukhov,” Nikolai said, his eyes betraying nothing but absolute sincerity, “I have never known her happiness to lie so truly in anyone else.”  
Pierre, unable to find words, let out a long breath.  
Nikolai patted Pierre reassuringly on the back, and the two men sat in silence, a quietness which Pierre appreciated, for at least this time it was filled with good company. After a while, Nikolai checked the clock, and noticing that it was almost time, began to usher Pierre to the back of the church. Looking over the many empty pews, Pierre took a deep breath. Relax, Bezukhov.  
Though he tried greatly to take his own advice, Pierre could not help his nerves as he stood at the entrance, waiting. He searched the room for a distraction, anything to put his mind at ease. Family and friends filtered slowly into the room, a low hum echoing throughout the old church. Pierre began to take note of the splendid architecture of the place in which he now stood, a glimpse of a bygone era still standing tall. He took notice of the buttresses, cracked but sturdy, and the immaculate stone carvings that accompanied them. He studied the twisting stone vines caressing the structure, in awe of how such art could come to be, and pitied the artist, knowing that these sorts of things were often overlooked in the presence of religious practice. He began to observe the sunlight, casting the brilliant blues and reds from the stained glass windows over the faces of the guests, making them look as though they were paintings in a museum. After studying these effects for some time, his distractions ran out.  
Suddenly, Pierre began to feel it again-- the great fear creeping through his veins, turning his blood to ice and stopping his breath; the fear that he would remain in this church just as he was now: alone. He shuddered at the thought. It was not so difficult to imagine. He had heard of men abandoned at the ceremony, victims of the cold feet of would-be wives, and while he never placed blame on either the bridegroom or the bride for the dissolution of a union, he had always had a lingering fear that someday it would happen to him. He would understand if she left him, and would not think her cruel. He had always felt unworthy of Natasha’s love, for she was the height of humanity in his mind, and he was a model for all of its faults. How could she love me? He thought, but never dared to ask, for he feared that even posing the question would cause her to realize how superior she was to himself, and she would finally gain sense and leave him for someone better.  
As the minutes passed, the fear grew stronger, and Pierre began to feel his face burn. He looked down, worried that tears would well up in his eyes, and took a deep breath. She will not abandon you. She loves you. She loves you. After a long moment, he felt a hand lift his face, ever so softly, and he suddenly realized that every last bit of air he had just taken in had vacated his lungs. She looked into his eyes, and forgetting everyone else, he let his tears begin to spill over his eyelids. A wide smile began to spread across his face, and the only thing he could see was her, his Natasha, standing there with him. The light glanced off of her cheek, making her own tears shine.  
Pierre took her hand, and unable to contain his joy, firmly kissed the back of it. He held her hand over his heart, and reached out with the other to wipe away her tears. She did the same for him. Their eyes were fixed on each other.  
“Pierre. Oh my dear, sweet Pierre. You know that if you cry, I shall cry too.” He laughed and felt a rush of warmth overtake his body. “My heart is racing so terribly! Oh goodness Pierre, how could you want me, panicking over everything? I wonder all the time why you should want to marry me.”  
Pierre began to stroke her cheek with his thumb, and Natasha placed her hand on his, looking up at him through her tears.  
“Because, my dear Natasha, there is nothing in this world or the next that could persuade my soul that it did not need yours.”  
Natasha smiled softly and held tightly to his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.  
“I love you,” she breathed, holding back a fresh wave of tears.  
Pierre exhaled, having the wind knocked out of him by her once more. She had a talent for it.  
“It looks as though it’s time,” he whispered, still very much out of breath. Her gaze bore straight into his eyes, glassy yet focused, and she nodded, breathing heavily.  
The priest began by blessing their rings, handed to him by Nikolai and Sonya Rostova, Pierre and Natasha’s respective svideteli. The priest told them of what their union would be-- the betterment and completion of two souls, incomplete on their own but whole and strong together. Pierre had never felt stronger than when Natasha was by his side, and he felt a particular warmth and fondness for this statement.  
“You will now exchange the rings.”  
Natasha took the ring from Sonya and placed it carefully on Pierre’s finger. He felt a tear fall from her face and onto his hand, and felt his own tears begin to gather again. He took the ring from Nikolai and noticed that his hand was shaking. Natasha reached out to steady him, and with another reassuring squeeze, helped to guide the ring onto her hand. The priest joined their right hands, making them one, and instructed them to keep them together for the rest of the ceremony. Pierre could not think of anything finer.  
The crowning and everything after passed in a blur, and the next thing Pierre knew, the priest was giving the final blessing. He looked quickly at Natasha, who was already looking at him, and realized that it had happened. They were married. He and Natasha Rostova. Natasha Bezukhova. Just a few hours before, he had feared that he would spend his life alone, and now she was here. Now they were each other’s. Overwhelmed with joy, he kissed her, as if by doing so he could prove that he was not, in fact, dreaming. In the abruptness of the kiss he caught Natasha by surprise, though she reciprocated quite enthusiastically. Pierre could hear Nikolai’s soft laughter behind him. Everyone could see him, them, and he did not care. After all, he was kissing his wife.  
********************************************************  
The ballroom was the brightest he had ever seen it on a winter’s night. All rooms are brighter when she is in them, Pierre thought. He had often wondered what this kind of happiness would feel like. For so many years, he had lived in dimly lit rooms and kept to himself, reading and letting his life go by in an indistinguishable, drunken rush. But now-- things were vibrant, fresh, new. When he was with Natasha the world simply seemed better.  
He watched her float through the crowd, from person to person, talking animatedly and receiving their most sincere congratulations. Pierre himself was caught up in some conversation about the developing United States, but found the topic dull in comparison to the bright light of Natasha Rostova. Bezukhova, he corrected himself, smirking slightly. He was not sure he would ever be used to that.  
Distracted, he saw her speaking with Sonya, the two women bubbling with excitement. They hugged and held each other’s hands, exchanging knowing looks and whispering to each other whenever something new and somewhat scandalous seemed to be afoot. Every once in awhile, they would look over at Pierre, and he would become somewhat uneasy, but in a way that one does when teased by family. The looks were joyful and loving. After some time, Natasha hugged her cousin and returned to Pierre’s side. She took his hand.  
“I am sorry to do this to you,” she said with a mischievous glint in her eye, “I know your disdain for it, but I find that, on my wedding day, it is a requirement of my husband to dance with me.”  
“Tasha…” he muttered, pulling back, “Tasha you know how awful I am.”  
She pulled his face close to his and spoke at a level that only he could hear.  
“Pyotr Kirillovich Bezukhov, you could step on my feet all night and I would still choose to only dance with you. I would like,” she said, her warm breath on his neck, sending a shiver down his spine, “to dance with my husband. And so I shall.” Natasha pressed her lips firmly on his mouth, and held their kiss for a long, sweet moment. While he was lost in cheerful bewilderment, she lead him onto the dance floor, and a waltz began. After a moment, Pierre realized Natasha’s trickery, and couldn’t help but be impressed. He reluctantly but graciously obliged her.  
Just as she had done as a young girl, Natasha helped Pierre and guided him through the steps. “This one is quite simple,” she’d say, though no dance ever seemed simple to Pierre. However, seeing how happy it made her, he put his best foot forward. He looked at her with wonder as she showed him through each piece, gracefully explaining what he was to do next. He felt so much younger when he danced with her, and forgot is hatred for it almost at once.  
He remembered her name day all those years ago, when he stopped by unannounced to offer his well wishes. That was the day they danced for the first time. The dance, of course, was entirely innocent-- he did not love her then as he did now. But this dance was different. Each turn, each step, every last movement of every last muscle was entirely electric.  
He hadn’t loved her as he did now on that name day all of those years ago. He hadn’t even thought of loving her in such a way until many years after that first dance. Until after he realized it was too late. After Helene. After Andrei. Upon the last few thoughts, Pierre felt a pang of guilt, as though by their misfortunes he had received blessings he did not deserve. He pushed the thought aside. He was happy, for after everything they had seen, everything they had faced, after all of the wasted time, Natasha and Pierre were here, dancing as husband and wife.


	2. Chapter 2

Pierre helped Natasha into the carriage, taking her hand while the maidservant helped her with her dress, and he climbed in after her. They waved to their families as they left. Natasha’s mother was in tears, as was Sonya. Mary and Nikolai waved and smiled, and Pierre could swear as they passed him, Nikolai gave him a wink. Pierre pulled himself back into the carriage, blushing crimson red.   
“What’s wrong, my dear?” Natasha asked, concerned.   
“Oh...nothing,” Pierre cleared his throat, a great many thoughts flooding his mind, “Nikolai. Something funny he did, that’s all.”   
“Ah, Nikolai. I love him dearly, but I do not think I wish to speak of him now.” Natasha paused as she moved onto his side of the carriage. “All I want to hear of is you, Petrushka. How are you my love?”   
Pierre blushed even more as his wife put her head on his chest, which, now that she was near him, was moving much faster. He put his arm around her and gently kissed the top of her head.  
“Petrushka, your heart is beating so quickly!”  
If this continued, his face would soon turn the color of a beat.  
“That...that is always the pace of my heart when you are near,” He paused a moment, taking everything in, and continued, answering her original question, “I am very well, Natasha. The best I have ever been.” Natasha looked up at him, kissed his cheek, and put her head in the exact place it had been only a moment before.   
They sat in silence for a long time, and Pierre began to realize how exhausted he was. He was sure this was the first time he had sat down since the ceremony, and was beginning to feel how sore he was. He looked down at Natasha, who had now fallen asleep, and he realized that she must feel as tired, if not more so than he did. He gently rubbed her back with his hand, and she snuggled in closer to him. Tears, which had been so present on this day already, began to fill his eyes once more, and he took a deep breath, which roused his drowsy wife.   
“Are we home Pierre?” She said, a sleepy gruffness coating her voice.  
The question excited him. There was a “we” that now belonged to this home. A “we” that had not existed before this morning. The “we” that he had only dreamed of. He looked out the window of the carriage as it began to slow.  
“Yes darling, we are.”  
Pierre exited the carriage first, and upon helping his wife down, he swooped her up in his arms while she squealed with delight. He laughed heartily and carried her over the threshold, through the entrance hall, up the stairs, and over the threshold of his room...their room. He sat Natasha down on the bed, and he sat next to her.   
Natasha looked into his eyes.   
“Hello, husband,” she whispered, cupping his face with her hand.  
Very suddenly, he began to cry.  
“Oh my goodness! Pierre? Petrushka? ”   
“Oh Natasha…”  
“What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”  
“Nothing Tasha, nothing is wrong.”  
“Have I done something?”  
“You’ve done... everything.”   
Pierre noticed that his last remark had struck something in Natasha.   
“My dear, no, please. I should rephrase,” he said, clasping her small hands in his, kissing them feverishly, “You’ve...done everything for me. You’ve helped me in ways that... I could not have ever foreseen. You. You are everything dear Natasha. I think what is wrong is that...nothing is wrong. Quite the contrary. Everything is as right as it can be, and I do not feel as though I am worth it.”   
“Oh Pierre…”   
“Natasha…” he said, and he paused for a long time, wondering if he should continue. “I...to believe that you love me. To… believe that any of this is real. That I am worthy of any of this...you don’t need someone like me. I am not worth it.”   
Natasha looked into her husband’s eyes, hurting so terribly for him, hating that he felt this way, looked at him for a long moment, tears now rolling down her face. She stroked his cheek, warm and damp with tears, and reassured him.  
“Stop,” she said quietly, heavily. She held his gaze. “Pierre... my Pierre...there is nothing in this world or the next that could persuade my soul that it did not need yours.”  
Pierre looked at Natasha, and smiled, his breathing returning to normal.  
“My dearest love…” he said, and pushing back her hair, he kissed his Natasha, every bit of longing he had ever felt for her now validated in this perfect moment of bliss. The Bezukhovs were quite content.


End file.
